“It all points to the fact that he has yielded to temptation when hampered by poverty,” said the vicar, without noticing the interruption.
“Well,” said Mr Timson, “it’s a bad job; but I’m glad that you don’t mean to prosecute.”
“You think with me then, Timson?”
“Of course—yes. Do you want to put the father of about a score of children on the treadmill? Why, they run about his house like rabbits; and if you do that, you’ll have them come and shriek in your ears for bread.”
“God forbid! I will hold to your way of thinking. I should never have done for a magistrate, Timson. They wanted me on the bench when I was down in the country; but I backed out; for I knew I should be too easy. No, Timson; I would not deprive the poor fellow of a chance of making an honest living in the future; for, you see, he is a man who has yielded once to temptation, and will repent to the end of his life. No, sir, I would not mar his future, for the world. I’m not one of those men who prosecute upon what they call principle. Perhaps I am wrong, but I am not unmerciful. I believe him to be a good man at heart; and I think, when he leaves, Timson, if we were to put say ten pounds a-piece, and send to him anonymously, it would be giving him a fresh start in life, eh? What do you say?”
“Good thing to do,” said Timson, “but better let him have it in tea. Say an annuity of so many pounds of tea per annum—mixed—for so many years.”
“Oh, no, Timson; it must be the money. The poor fellow was oppressed by poverty when he—er—er—took the money.”
“Then why didn’t he come like a man and ask me to advance him a few pounds, or let them have so much tea on credit?”
“The wrong sort of man, Timson—the wrong sort of man! But I’m sorry for him, very.”
“So am I—so will everybody be,” said Timson, gruffly; and then they had another long smoke.